


for all the ones who hurt the most

by perennials



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: AKA: viktor emoes and yuuri does his thing, M/M, birthday fic, plus social media cos i got bored
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9046598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennials/pseuds/perennials
Summary: “I'm growing old. It's not something worth celebrating,” Viktor explains, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. His hand stops moving, folds itself over Yuuri’s like a glove.“It is in my eyes, though,” Yuuri says thoughtfully. “It means the last year I spent with you isn't just a dream. It means we have another one together.”-Or, Viktor's birthday approaches, Viktor drifts away, and Yuuri does his best not to let him go.Home means so much more when it's four letters traced into the palm of your hand.





	

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday you emo russian popsicle man  
> sorry abt the tears

**nuts** @chubsthehamster

one week left!! #viktorsbirthdaycountdown2015

 

 **BINCH** @jaebumlive

anyone in hasetsu rn?? get us photos of the birthday boy pls lmao #viktorsbirthdaycountdown2015 i’m too broke to fly

 

 **Phichit** @therealchulanont

@katsuki_yuuri_01 #viktorsbirthdaycountdown2015 is trending! any thoughts on this?

 

 **Phichit** @therealchulanont

@katsuki_yuuri_01 earth to yuuuuuuuuri

 

 **Yuri @ Kazakstan** @yuriplisetskyy

@katsuki_yuuri_01 @therealchulanont yuuri is not on earth

 

//

 

Viktor wakes up to the sound of seagulls cawing in the distance.

 

He tries to sit up in bed, but Yuuri rises from the sprawl of sheets around them like a zombie, latches onto Viktor’s torso, and pulls him back under the covers.

 

“Happy Christmas. Merry birthday,” Yuuri mumbles into his ear.

 

Birthday? He hasn't forgotten again, has he?

 

Viktor fumbles around for his phone on the bedside table, and breathes a sigh of relief when his fingers find cool glass and the screen lights up in the darkness with the corresponding time and date.

 

“You're a week early, love,” he chuckles.

 

“Oh. Sorry.”

 

Yuuri dozes back off almost immediately. Yuuri sounds half asleep. Yuuri may not have been awake in the first place, he suspects.

 

“Good night,” Viktor whispers to the sliver of moonlight spliced across the ceiling. He allows himself a small, pained smile that lasts exactly half a second, before Yuuri tugs on his waist and flips him over so he can nuzzle into the crook of Viktor’s neck.

 

And Yuuri is a worthy distraction from existential crises, so he lets the thought go.

 

//

 

The next day, Yurio sullenly informs him that #viktorsbirthdaycountdown2016 is trending on Twitter (instead of #takeaphotoofyourcatandyouinthesnow, his own pride and joy, it deserves more than fifty tweets in the hashtag, _please_ ).

 

Viktor scrolls through the tag for a full minute before he has to click the _back_ button to return him to his timeline, and then close the app entirely.

 

That's how Yuuri finds him, sat on the edge of the bed with a towel draped over his head like a wedding veil, phone cradled loosely in his hands. Not that he can actually see Yuuri, because the towel is hanging so low over his bangs it's about to slip off entirely. All he can see is: pale, bruise-colored feet and pretty thighs and the bottom of a T-shirt, the one with the superman print that he knows Yuuri is embarrassed of but Hiroko saved from his childhood affairs purge.

 

“Viktor?” Yuuri asks. It sounds like “are you okay”, really, and for a moment Viktor is both immensely grateful and profoundly sad that Yuuri has learned to read the slouch in his shoulders and the tension in his hands for what it really is.

 

“Just a little something I saw online,” he says cheerily, looking up at Yuuri to emphasize his point. The towel finally falls off in the process and lands in a crumpled heap on the floor.

 

Yuuri pads over and sits down beside him, ignoring the morose-looking towel at the foot of the bed. He turns to Viktor, stares intently at him for five seconds, then places a hand on either side of his face and gently tugs him close.

 

He kisses the tip of Viktor’s nose.

 

“Is it about your birthday?” Yuuri says simply.

 

Viktor’s heart sighs.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

He brings a hand up to where Yuuri’s is still cradling his face, dancing his fingers absentmindedly across his knuckles.

 

“I'm growing old. It's not something worth celebrating,” he elaborates, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. His hand stops moving, folds itself over Yuuri’s like a glove.

 

“It is in my eyes, though,” Yuuri says thoughtfully after a while. “It means the last year I spent with you isn't just a dream. It means we have another one together.”

 

His answer gets stuck in his throat, so he kisses Yuuri again, each soft slide of their mouths together a string of unspoken _thank yous_ and _sorrys_ and _I love yous._ He kisses Yuuri again, and the world rights itself.

 

//

 

 **Katsuki Yuuri** @katsuki_yuuri_01

Five days to Christmas! We took Makkachin for a walk in the snow today. pic.twitter.com/Mgtxdb0U6f

 

//

 

“How rich are you exactly, Viktor Nikiforov?” Yuuri asks playfully, teasingly, elbowing Viktor aside when he lets out a dramatic little gasp to look at the ridiculous listing on the computer screen in full. It _is_ absolutely preposterous, Yuuri decides, eyeing the winding line of zeroes that trails behind the first few digits.

 

“I could probably get an apartment in upstate New York if I wanted to. Several, actually,” Viktor replies with a smug grin.

 

Yuuri falls backwards onto the bed. “Okay, cool, but we really don’t need a deluxe penthouse with four bedrooms and two toilets that’s on the _twentieth_ floor. I’m serious.”

 

It’s the same bed Viktor’s been dragging Yuuri out of all year, with its single mattress and ragged, soft pillows and the chipped wooden frame that groans like a wheezing old man whenever someone sinks down into it. It’s the same old Hasetsu.

 

The Grand Prix final had seen Viktor and Yuuri home with a silver medal between the two of them (Yuuri’s win, of course), and though their plans for the future haven’t been cemented yet, one thing’s for sure— the home rink needs expanding, and therefore, moving. Hasetsu is just a temporary base.

 

And for some reason or another, Yuuri had let himself get dragged into Googling property agents and apartment listings in the most (ir)relevant of places.

 

Viktor looks longingly at the developer’s site one last time and turns quivering puppy-eyes back to where Yuuri’s sprawled out behind him with a dead-set, no-nonsense expression. He holds Yuuri’s gaze for one, two, three painful moments, then reluctantly slides his cursor across the screen and closes the tab.

 

“Don’t look so glum. You’ve got an apartment in St. Petersburg anyway, haven’t you? You’ve _lived_ in it. We can stay there.”

 

“Yeah, but,” Viktor twiddles his fingers like a child. “Makkachin needs, um, more space?”

 

As if summoned by name alone, Makkachin jumps up from where he’s been lying at Viktor’s feet and promptly throws himself into his lap.

 

Viktor almost buckles under the weight of the large, loud bundle of fur. He laughs, pulling Makkachin into a hug and peeking out at Yuuri from behind a mass of chocolate-brown curls.

 

“See? More space.”

 

Yuuri reaches out and flicks Viktor in the forehead.

 

//

 

“Russia, Russia, what have we in Russia?” Viktor singsongs, chin perched daintily on his folded hands. Skype is the most convenient thing ever. He loves Skype.

 

“Me. Maybe you, if Yakov doesn’t get a heart attack from the stress and shock first. Not the katsudon. Definitely not the katsudon.” Yurio scowls, the uncouth gesture further amplified by the large screen display.

 

Viktor cracks a pretty smile. “You’ll have us, won’t you?”

 

“Fuck off, old geezer. Weren’t you gonna, I dunno, _retire_ , or something?”

 

“Every day is a chance to turn things around,” Viktor declares, unlistening.

 

“I’m leaving,” Yurio moves to press end call.

 

Viktor cuts in, “you’ll have us.” It’s not a question. His smile has turned into a shit-eating grin, and Yurio visibly bristles at it.

 

“Happy fucking early birthday, Viktor,” he growls.

 

The screen goes blank.

 

“Russia, Russia, maybe I’ll find a new life in Russia,” he continues aloud to no one in particular, the lilting notes following a familiar tune whose name he’s long since forgotten.

 

//

 

See, Viktor’s never been good with words, but Yuuri’s the brightest dream he’s ever had.

 

//

 

 **Viktor Nikiforov** @v_nikiforov

I’ve found my LL.^^ Where's yours?

 

 **T-3 TO VIKTORMAS** @rubymarus

@v_nikiforov love live???

 

 **thicc** @_jaufea

@v_nikiforov @rubymarus u fool he means lumber liquidators

 

//

 

Yuuri sneaks out on Wednesday morning (or, at least, he probably thinks he leaves unnoticed, but Hiroko is a woman who doesn’t let anything slip past her, and Viktor, for all his foolishness, knows who to consult on matters like this), and returns in the late afternoon, dripping wet and shivering in the doorway. He has a plastic bag in each hand, and his cheeks are apple-red and frozen. There’s another bag— smaller, less noticeable, folded neatly into his back pocket, but neither Hiroko nor Viktor sees it.

 

Did it rain, or snow, or both?

 

Hiroko’s protective instincts kick in immediately, but Viktor manages to surpass the speed of light and is by Yuuri’s side in a flash, transferring the plastic bags from his cold, cold hands to Viktor’s warm ones. She looks at Viktor and sees concern as clear as fresh snow, falling thickly over his lashes and frosting over the taut line of his jaw.

 

“Here’s a clean towel,” Hiroko says.

 

“Thank you.” He accepts it gratefully, and once Yuuri’s kicked his shoes off he’s dragging the other back down the hallway to the bedroom with him.

 

These past few weeks it’s been _the_ bedroom, not _their bedrooms_. Hiroko isn’t oblivious. Viktor’s suitcase is still laid open in the spare banquet room, but half of his belongings are over at Yuuri’s. A fancy bottle of cologne with foreign inscriptions, a second apple lightning cable (more battered-looking than Yuuri’s) plugged into the socket in the wall, a pack of facial wipes that now lives on the desk. They probably think they’re being subtle, with their pitter-pattering footsteps at night and the way Viktor slinks from one room to the other like a stray cat in some dingy back-alley, even though Yuuri leaves the lights on outside because Viktor doesn’t like the dark and the sound of quiet, muffled laughter can always be heard for at least an hour after the door whistles shut. Really, really, they’re not.

 

Hiroko thinks it’s adorable.

 

So she doesn’t comment on how Viktor follows Yuuri into the bathroom afterwards, and the deceptively silent exchange that takes place inside, or how Viktor’s cheeks are love-letter pink when he gets out.

 

Instead, she smiles warmly at him, and asks him if he would like some red bean soup, because it’s one of Yuuri’s favorite dishes.

 

He takes her up on the offer.

 

//

 

After a night of insistent cuddling, in which Viktor almost turns him into melted marshmallow gooeyness with his affections and ministrations and sheer body temperature, Yuuri is deemed _well enough to walk around by himself (!)_ again.

 

Which is something he seems quite pleased about, really. He pulls out the cause of yesterday’s Popsicle Yuuri episode and begins rummaging through its contents.

 

Viktor spectates curiously.

 

Eventually Yuuri seems to make up his mind, and turns the plastic bag upside down, letting everything inside fall out. He glances up at Viktor, eyes shining.

 

“Have you ever played with sparklers?”

 

//

 

Imagine: a narrow but tastefully decorated apartment in St. Petersburg, Russia. The walls are mostly bare, save for a few framed photos of fruit and stock photo sunsets.

 

Imagine: the brightly lit living room, elaborate light fixtures making sure not one square inch of space is left in the dark. The coffee table, sleek and modern and low. The sofa, stiff and too-big for just one person.

 

Imagine: Viktor Nikiforov, not twenty-seven or twenty-eight but sixteen, slim frame barely dipping into the sofa’s soft fabric cover. Makkachin, tucked safely under one of his arms. A single, store-bought cupcake with a dollar-store candle planted in the center.

 

_Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday to Viktor—_

 

Makkachin yips happily.

 

_—happy birthday to me._

 

Imagine the too-big room with only a small boy and a bigger dog. Imagine the rebound of his voice off the walls when he closes his eyes and whispers, _make a wish_. Imagine the candle going out in an instant, like a fever dream.

 

Think about this: no matter how much Makkachin loves him, he cannot _say_ happy birthday.

 

//

 

On Thursday night, they head down to the beach.

 

Hiroko makes sure they're bundled up nice and tight before letting them go, and they set out to the sound of Mari’s lazy but genuinely-concerned call of, “don't come back too late!”

 

The path there is a familiar one. It follows the same roads as Yuuri’s usual morning run, only once you reach the bridge, instead of turning right and stepping up onto it you're supposed to take a left.

 

Viktor hasn't forgotten any of it.

 

The seven a.m. biking expeditions where Yuuri would trail behind on his feet, panting heavily and silently cursing his existence; the smell of the ocean in the air, thick and oddly pleasant; the sound of black-tailed gulls cawing in the distance, the sound of home.

 

Even though the sun has long since set, swallowing the color of the sky along with it, every landmark, every sign, is still as clear as day.

 

When they finally reach the beach the sky has faded to dark gray, giving way to an outcropping of softly-twinkling stars. They step out onto the sand, and Viktor gets so caught up in nature’s display up above that he doesn't notice Yuuri until he nudges him in the shoulder and hands him a sparkler.

 

“Oh,” Viktor says, accepting the proffered sparkler. It's a thin, straight wire that looks almost sharp enough to cut someone with. He's never seen one before. Viktor’s fascinated.

 

“What do I—” he starts, but the click of the lighter makes him stop.

 

“Watch,” Yuuri says, the small smile on his lips cast in soft oranges and yellows. He holds the tip of his sparkler out over the flame, and it catches almost immediately.

 

At first the sound makes Viktor flinch, but then he's so mesmerized by the sparks flying from the tip of the sparkler that he forgets about it. It's like the wire had been hiding a galaxy of constellations inside of it, each one alive and spitting fire and light like its own living, breathing thing.

 

“And so,” Yuuri continues, taking Viktor’s hand with his free one and pulling it closer. “You touch the tips together here, and there!” Viktor’s sparkler takes off with a bang. “Now yours is lit too.”

 

Viktor feels five again. He doesn't want to be anything but five ever again. Five years old and child-bright and in love with a boy with a heart made of stars.

 

Yuuri tells him he can write things out in the air with them.

 

Viktor writes:

 

_I love you. Russia is cold. Will you marry me._

 

Yuuri guesses:

 

_I love you. Billy is gold. Will go kart away._

 

Viktor has the time of his life.

 

//

 

Yuuri catches him off guard, only because 1. Viktor is squatting on the beach, poking holes in the sand with his last burnt out sparkler, 2. It is dark, and 3. He is sad about his burnt out sparkler. He swears it.

 

He swears it because Yuuri taps him on the back and he turns around and Yuuri says _Merry Christmas_ before _happy birthday_.  Because Yuuri says them both, and Viktor's never heard a happy birthday softer, kinder than this. Because Viktor’s heart does the thing where it beats so hard it tries to burst out of his chest and it’s almost funny but it’s not, and mostly, he wants to cry.

 

Yuuri fidgets, a nervous habit he’s never quite let go of. “Give me your hand.”

 

Viktor holds it out for him.

 

Yuuri takes it between his own, turns it upwards so his palm is facing the sky. He brushes his thumb along the faint creases in Viktor’s skin like he’s holding a precious stone, then brings his hand to his mouth and presses his lips to every knuckle gently.

 

“I don’t know if this is what you want,” he says, very quietly, “but I got you a gift.”

 

Yuuri presses something cold and hard into his palm.

 

“And I wasn’t sure if my mom or dad would be fine with this, but they didn’t object when I asked, so—”

 

Viktor looks down at his hand.

 

“—these are duplicate keys to the house. Not to the parts that are, you know, business related, like the hot springs storage room, and the hot springs themselves, but you can let yourself in any time you want.”

 

It’s a key ring with a handful of keys on the loop, shiny, new metal scintillating in the moonlight. There’s even a ribbon tied around it, a length of pretty red silk pulled into a simple bow.

 

“Viktor…?”

 

Huh. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away from it. His throat hurts.

 

“Thank you,” he tries, but it comes out as 70% a hiccup and 30% a sob.

 

Silence.

 

“What?”

 

“No, it’s just...You’re crying again.”

 

“Yes.” Viktor wipes away a particularly fat tear that’s begun making its way down his cheek. “So what of it? Do you like seeing me cry?”

 

Yuuri is incredulous. “You’re beautiful when you cry.” He leans forward on his tiptoes, puts his hands on Viktor’s shoulders, and kisses the corner of his eye.

 

“I don’t love it. But I love you.”

 

Viktor pulls a face and sniffles. “You’re not allowed to say nice things after making someone cry.”

 

Yuuri kisses the corner of his other eye, too. “Is it a bad gift?”

 

Viktor throws his arms around Yuuri’s neck and pulls him flush to his front. “No. Thank you.” This time it comes out sounding more like English, and he hopes Yuuri understands.

 

He's given Viktor so much more than just a set of keys. He's given him a place to come back to.

 

“We’re going to Russia,” he whispers into Yuuri’s hair, like a secret shared between just the two of them. Like a sparkler, ready to go off in a shower of kaleidoscopic sparks at any moment.

 

“We’re going to Russia,” Yuuri affirms.

 

Viktor hugs him tighter. “But we’ll come back. Because seagulls.”

 

He feels Yuuri smile into his shoulder.

 

“Mmm. Home is where the seagulls are.”

 

//

 

 **freedom!!** @jiguanghong

圣诞节快乐!!! Merry Christmas!!! c:

 

 **chris** @c_giacometti

merry chris

 

 **Yuri @ Kazakstan** @yuriplisetskyy

merry christmas to everyone except viktor nikiforov

 

 **JJ STYLE** @JJ_official

This morning I woke up thinking things felt a bit strange. Then I looked in the mirror and realized, of course! It was because of my existen

 

 **Viktor Nikiforov** @v_nikiforov

No matter where we might go. pic.twitter.com/0m31NxqGM

**Author's Note:**

> ITS A MESS because i started it at like midnight on his birthday and then wrote till 4 and passed out and then continued on after lunch but yea. i tried. AND HEY LOOK at least it's not a fucking ring this time (see: the last yuuri bday fic (proposal) and the last viktor bday fic (also a proposal). although the gift is still a chunk of metal. several chunks of metal.  
> find me on twitter @ nikiforcvs
> 
> thanks for reading, merry christmas, merry viktor our lord and savior's birthday!
> 
> have a good one


End file.
